Roses on a Grave
by whitetiger91
Summary: Sometimes, a random act of kindness is all it takes.


_**A/N: This story was written for The Houses Competition forum, Year 2, Round 2. I am a third year, but this story was written as a stand-in for our Prefect 1, kurotsuba.**_

 _ **House: Gryffindor**_

 _ **Year: Prefect 1 (written as a stand-in; normally a third year)**_

 _ **Type of prompt: Short story**_

 _ **Prompt: 3.**_ _ **[Prompt] Random Act of Kindness**_

 _ **Word count: 1985 (using Google docs)**_

 _ **Dedicated to Rocky (rockyroad69) for being awesome :) A big thank you to my betas, Cara (Lenore483), Lumi (Lumiellie), CK (Theoreticaloptimist), Shay (ipsa dixit)!**_

 _ **Just a heads up (mainly because I've done a bit of umming and ahhing based on different beta advice), Terry's last name is intentionally left vague until you discover more; he is not Terry Boot, of course ;) The same goes for his pronunciation of 'Quidditch.' Thank you for reading!**_

* * *

 **Roses on a Grave**

No wizard had wanted the job, but that didn't make Terry feel any less welcome. Not that anyone particularly wanted to see a Muggle either, really, but they mostly treated him with respect and stood out of his way. Some folks even went so far as to give him a small smile as they made their way out of the gates.

No, no _wizard_ had wanted to be a groundskeeper at a cemetery—especially at one dedicated to the victims of their latest war—but he didn't mind.

Terry pushed his wheelbarrow down the winding gravel path. It was much easier than carting around a basket of glass milk bottles like he used to, and he began to whistle. Most of the marble headstones had been polished the night before and he had already mowed the lawns. All that was left to do was to trim a few of the oak trees surrounding the southern plots and he could kick off for lunch.

He pulled the wheelbarrow to a stop in front of one particularly overgrown tree and picked up the shears.

"I don't care what your life is like now, you need to clean this up!"

Terry sighed as the shrill voice echoed across the grounds. Most folks were dignified when they came to the cemetery and usually kept to themselves. Sometimes, however, a few people would be overcome by their emotions and would forget where they were.

"I don't think it's any of your business what I need to do!" a second voice shouted.

"Actually, it _is_ the Preservation Society's business what goes on here."

With another sigh, Terry put the shears back in the wheelbarrow. The voices were growing louder, and although it wasn't really any of his business what they were arguing about, it was his job to maintain order on the grounds. He ambled over to the source of the noise, not surprised in the least by what he found.

A group of witches in their late forties or early fifties—he couldn't quite tell by the way their frowns deepened the lines on their foreheads—were standing in a cluster near one of the graves. Most of the women had their hair twisted up in chignons, their immaculate, waist-pinching robes varying shades of pink. Their hands were all on their hips, and each woman had a small badge engraved with the initials 'PS' pinned to the brim of her pointed hat.

The only exception was the witch dressed head to toe in black. Her frame was much plumper than the other women's, but it was neither her size nor the robes she wore that made her stand out. It was the way she stood opposite the group, her pale blue eyes flashing and arms crossed.

Terry had seen the woman before, having started work around the same time the protests began to keep the 'riff-raff' out of the cemetery. The poor brunette had been one of the few women who had attempted to claim a plot for her deceased son. Given the boy's role in the war, however, he was not deemed 'good enough' to be given the honour of a proper burial, and she was turned down to the south end.

Terry might not have agreed with the choices the boy made—it seemed they had affected everyone—but neither he nor his mother deserved the treatment they received. He knew what it was like to lose a son, and being bullied into how he should grieve would only have made it more heart-wrenching.

"As you very well know, I cannot afford to keep up with your snotty tastes. The Ministry took away my fortune after—well, I have been left with nothing," the woman said.

Terry could see that she was close to tears, but she kept her back straight and continued to stare down the group.

One of the Preservation Society women—the leader, it seemed—stepped forward and sneered. With a long, manicured finger, she pointed at the witch and said, "You deserved everything you got, Giselda Crabbe, as did your son. You should be happy that we have allowed you to stay here."

Taking a deep breath, Terry strode over to the group. The woman had taken it too far, especially when other mourners seemed to pause and stare at the gathering, hints of smirks rising on their faces underneath their tears.

"Excuse me, but could I help you with anything?" he asked.

The blonde snapped her head towards him and narrowed her hazel eyes. They seemed to trail over his clothes, lingering on the patches of dirt on the knees of his overalls.

"No, I think we're alright," the woman said. She turned back to the dumpy woman and wagged her finger. "Clean up this site, or we shall ensure that it is removed."

The woman then clicked her fingers and turned on her heel. The other witches took their cue and shot the Crabbe woman a glare before stalking off after their leader.

Terry turned to the brunette, his eyes soft. She was smoothing down her robes, but her hands trembled as she did so.

"Are you alright, madam?" he asked.

The woman blinked at him as though she hadn't even noticed him standing there. Soon, however, her eyes turned stormy again.

"I do not need help from the likes of you," she said, lifting her nose to the air.

Terry took a step back. He opened his mouth to say something, to assure her that he wasn't there to rebuke her, but closed it again.

It wasn't any of his business anyway.

* * *

Terry whistled to himself as he locked the front gate. For the first time in weeks, the sun was shining, the bands of gold, orange and red colouring the sky. The late afternoon warmth seemed to not just be affecting himself; small wrens fluttered about the trees, chirping happily as they sought worms for dinner.

He still had half an hour before any guests had to leave the site, but with very few mourners wandering around, he thought he'd get a head start closing up. As it were, his youngest son had bought them tickets to one of those Kwi-deetch games he was always going on about, and he didn't want to be late. He had already disappointed his son by not attending the last two matches, having been unable to face them since Co—since his other son had died. It wasn't fair to neglect his youngest, though, especially not when he was the only family he had left.

Pulling on the chains to make sure the gate was secure, Terry placed the key in his pocket and headed towards the south gate.

"I-I'm sor-sorry," a voice wailed.

The tune he had been whistling died in his throat. Slowing his pace, Terry crept over to the sound of sobbing coming from a nearby grave. He didn't mean to pry, but whenever he heard another human cry, he couldn't help the pang in his heart.

The brunette from the day before was sitting at the cracked gravestone, a handkerchief in her hand. She didn't bother using it, however, the tears running down her sticky, red cheeks. In her other hand, she held a small bunch of daisies. The flowers looked worse for wear, their heads drooping and petals detaching as the woman tried to place it atop the grave.

"I-I'm sorry that th-they're not r-roses," the woman said, her round shoulders heaving up and down. "I could-couldn't aff-afford to—" her words broke off as another sob escaped her throat.

Terry looked down at his shoes, his heart giving another painful pang. By the looks of it, the poor woman had picked the wildflowers that had been growing outside the front fence. His own son's grave was frequently adorned with all manners of colourful, store-bought blooms, as were just about all the other graves.

Taking a deep breath, he took off his hat and strode over to the woman.

"It does get better," he said, smiling down at her.

The brunette didn't look up. She lifted her handkerchief to her nose and blew into it. A horrible, trumpet-like sound followed, but Terry refused to flinch.

"So, what was your boy," he peered at the grave, just to make sure he remembered the name correctly, "Vincent like? Did he have any hobbies?"

The woman blew her nose again, louder than before. Still, her gaze remained focused on the daisies.

Terry bent down. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "My Colin used to love photography; he was quite the happy chap. He died in the battle of Hogwarts, too, you see, and even knew Harry Pot—"

Before he could finish, the woman stood and slapped his hand away. With narrowed eyes, she jabbed a finger at his chest.

"I don't care what you think; my son was a good boy! His involvement in the war is nothing to scoff at," she said, each word accompanied by a poke to his chest.

Terry reeled back and held his hands up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that your son wasn'—"

"I suppose you think your boy was a hero, don't you? Well, I've got news for you: he wasn't! None of them were—they were all cowards! _Cowards!_ "

His cheeks and neck grew hot, and it took all the self-restraint within him to not put his own finger in the woman's face. His son was a fine boy and had died protecting innocent people.

With a few deep breaths, he tried to swallow the retort that came to his lips. If one false comment about his son could make him so angry, was it any wonder the woman was prepared to lash out after months of abuse?

The woman took a deep breath of her own. Collapsing on top of her son's grave, great sobs wracking her heavy frame, she waved a hand at him. "Just go. I'll let myself out."

He hesitated for a moment before nodding and turning around. The sounds of the woman's misery filled the gravesite, following him as he left. Even as he walked down the narrow pathway towards his car, he could hear her once more apologising to her son.

A slight breeze picked up around him, and he pulled the collar of his coat over his neck. Talking about what happened might have helped him deal with Colin's death, but the woman perhaps needing something more. When the wind stirred the trees around him, sending blossoms floating to the ground, he realised he knew what that something might be.

Already late for the match, he quickened his pace, knowing there was one stop he had to make first.

* * *

Terry knew she would be back eventually—even if it was in the afternoon rather than during the morning like he had expected.

He smiled to himself as he pretended to rake up the leaves in front of him. He kept one eye on the brunette as she walked up the winding path, another bunch of wilting daisies in her chubby hands. It wasn't long before she saw him and her face contorted into a sneer. He quickly ducked his head and focused on the lawn, waiting for a few moments as she continued along the path.

He glanced back up just in time, though, to see the woman fall to her knees in front of her son's grave. He watched as a hand flew to her mouth, her head shaking back and forth. Reaching her other hand out, which now trembled, she ran it over the fresh bunch of roses spread across the grave.

When she looked at him, a small smile graced her face. He gave her a small nod, and as she turned back to the flowers, he returned to raking the leaves.

No, no wizard ever wanted his job, but if they ever did, he wouldn't let them have it anyway.


End file.
